Fear Of Floating

 It has been my experience that metropolitan New Yorkers are not traditionally water people. They don’t readily take to the sea and talk about things like jibs and mainsails like New Englanders do--they don’t hang ten on surfboards like Californians. They avoid the water: they travel through tunnels that have been burrowed miles beneath it, and navigate across bridges that have been built miles above it. 

We in my family were true landlubbers. I remember hearing stories of how my dad almost died on the boat coming to the U.S., and had he actually died, I’m not sure what really would have done him in--the seasickness or the falling into the water as he was hanging over the edge because of the seasickness. 

When I was much younger, the extent of my water activities was taking a bath. We were not beach people either, no surprise there--my mom hated the sand. I found no joy in splashing around in the murky waters of Manhattan Beach in Brooklyn, and the thought of getting pulled under by riptides caused me undue paranoia whenever I got past the beachfront.  While the others were attempting to jump the waves and squealing with delight as a rush of seawater would come and send them tumbling, I adhered to the dilettante’s method of beach going, and would merely dunk my toes and search for shells. 

 Most of the memories I have of swimming pools come from my summers spent up in the Catskill Mountains. The pool’s side was a bigger draw, since that’s where we did our sunbathing. Our suntan lotion of choice was a very unscientific and now we know, dangerous, mixture of baby oil and iodine, and we slathered it all over our bodies. The iodine gave the concoction a rusty-red hue, and in turn our skin took on that color, as did our bathing suits and anything else it came into contact with. More time was spent outside the pool than in it. My friends would have diving contests and swimming races, but I would feign sleep, or be reading a magazine, and then merely go in for a dip. The water held no attraction for me, and I didn’t want to get my hair wet (the bane of a wavy-haired girl’s existence).

Moving to southern California, land of year-round water sports, and experiencing life from an entirely different perspective (and coastline), may have emboldened me slightly when it came to my fear (and dislike) of the water.  

When my boys were old enough to go away to summer camp, I wanted them to experience what I felt was a true East-Coast-on-the-West-Coast camp experience, and being near a lake was a large part of it. Visiting day was always a bittersweet time for me. The first glimpses of my boys--dressed in mismatched clothes, their skin turned golden by the sun, looking so much more grown up than when they left weeks before--were heavenly. There were hugs and kisses and introductions to new friends, and a celebratory lunch of burgers and fries and thick, cold shakes at Miller’s, the local eatery. 

When our hearts and bellies were full, we would head down to the lake for our ritual visiting day activities. And what was up till then a wonderful yearly event, would become for me something akin to torture. As I mentioned, I believed no summer camp was a true summer camp without lake access. What I actually believed was this access should be for everyone but me. Gone were the days when I could sit back and watch everyone else head to the waterfront. My sons would have nothing of it, and rather than disappoint them, I joined them--with great trepidation. It wasn’t so much the being in the water that frightened me, it was being in a large body of water, with nothing to hold on to and nowhere to plant my feet. 

It took every last jot of courage I could muster to get myself on the speedboat. I would very carefully choose who I wanted to go with—we were always part of a large group—and usually it was someone who I thought would be able to save me if I fell in and proceeded to drown. Very often, that person was our friend Seth. When Seth would take the helm, I knew I was in good hands.  After all, he’s a gynecologist...he delivered my son--has had many years dealing with breech births, c-sections, and episiotomies, of course the man could handle a water emergency! He signed an oath, which is more than I could say for the other non-MDs in the group. My friend Carrie received the well-sought after second-place on my list.  She, although not a medical practitioner, did grow up around boats and merely emanated a strong nautical vibe.

Are you wondering why no one on the list was a blood relative? I don’t think I really need to answer that, other than tell you that I wouldn’t trust my family to save me from drowning even if they had a life boat. My husband and I did such a good job of making sure our boys were fearless in the water that they were, in my opinion, too fearless--and too reckless.

It’s interesting that years later, the very thing that scared the heck out of me for much of my life, became a great source of comfort. After a full day of visiting my mom who was lying very ill in a hospital bed in Santa Monica, I would take the coast route to get home.  As my car would leave the city streets and edge closer to the Pacific Coast Highway, I could feel the burdens of the day beginning to lift. The medicinal smells of the hospital ward and the vision of mom curled up in her white and blue hospital gown and fuzzy blue slipper-socks would be blown out to sea as the salty air filtered through the car windows. What was left of the sunlight danced on the water like little prisms. I am so far away from that ocean now, but I realize how much of my sanity back then was owed to those drives alongside it. 

 My dog Dashiell and I walk along the Charles River here in Cambridge every morning.The weather has turned and the winterized pleasure boats we pass look as though they’ve been vacuum-sealed in white plastic. The giant white “glaciers” creak as they bob up and down in the frigid water. I’ve read that water is a great healer, and even the ancient Egyptians and Romans recognized that. I now believe for me, it is more of a mental than physical healer. And I finally have realized that I am so happy being near the water--just not in it.  

Jagodzianki: Polish Blueberry Buns

(A portion of this blog post appeared on http://www.inquisitiveeater.com)

A summer vacation in the mountains sounds exotic. A summer vacation at a bungalow colony/egg farm in the Catskill Mountains sounds less so.  As a little girl growing up in Brooklyn, I didn’t usually get much exposure to “real nature” on the streets of East Flatbush, but once our car traveled two hours north, this city slicker encountered a rural playground. And that was as exotic as I was going to experience for a long time.

Just minutes from our summertime bungalow was a blueberry bramble. It was just a short walk down the road and could be reached through a clearing in the bushes. Our goal was to find as many berries as we could, and armed with plastic bowls, buckets, and dented metal colanders, we embarked on what felt like a treasure hunt.

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The sun was always high, its rays were hot shards that pierced through the branches amidst the berries. The sky was always blue, and paled only in comparison to the deep-blue jujubes we sought. We were nicely hidden once we passed through the clearing, and unless one knew we were there, he would be hard pressed to find us. The only sound we made was with our berries: “blue marbles” I liked to call them. The first few to hit the containers plinked softly. “Don’t throw them!” the grown-ups who accompanied us admonished. As the bowls and buckets filled and berries piled upon berries, the sounds became more muffled. Picking and filling, picking and filling, and here and there stopping to taste. Some were firm and tart, picked too soon, and others were softer, sweeter, and juicier.

One berry, 

Two berry, 

Pick me a blueberry. 

- Bruce Degen

 The intermittent bursts of sun itched my skin and I proceeded with great care so as not to get pricked by the thorns. Every once in a while one would catch my tee shirt and I would ever so gently pry myself from its grasp all the while trying not to draw blood. Old tee shirts and jeans were the uniforms we wore for this task. In the battle between skin and barbs, and berry juice and fabric, barbs and berries were the victors every time. After a long while, someone would call, “Finish up!” and the ragtag group would emerge from the hideout, scraped, stained, and squinting at the full daylight that accosted our now shade-acclimated eyes. We would trudge home, our bellies and bowls filled with berries, glancing furtively at one another to see whose containers were filled higher than our own. 

The health benefits that have recently been associated with blueberries have raised the fruit’s credibility to superstar levels. But in the wilds of South Fallsburg, New York, during the summer of 1965, antioxidants and vitamin C were the last things on our minds. My mom was a purist: our berries were washed and added to cubes of melon and 

honeydew. They would also be folded into bowls of tart sour cream and then dusted with spoonfuls of sugar crystals. For a more sophisticated end product we looked to “Buba,” the grandmother of our group.  She would make jagodzianki (ya-go-janki), doughy buns, that hid the berries until one bite gave them away. The purple berry juice, would seep through the dough and stain my hands and fingers as I tore at the bun. Buba is long gone, and for all I know, her recipe went with her. I found a similar one, and adapted it (of course) a bit. Lemon zest added to the filling gives it a nice 

zing. And the crunchy streusel topping transports these not-too-sweet breakfast buns into the dessert zone where they belong...next to a nice hot cup of coffee or a tall glass of cold milk.

Polish Blueberry Buns (Jagodzianki)

(adapted from In Ania’s Kitchen)

Dough:

2 Tbsp.  all-purpose flour

2 Tbsp. granulated sugar

2 1/4 tsp. instant yeast (1 packet)

2 cups all-purpose flour

1/3 cup sugar

2 eggs, beaten

1 tsp.  vanilla extract

pinch of salt

1/4 cup unsalted butter, melted

Filling:

2 cups blueberries

1/3 cup sugar

2 tbsp. bread crumbs

zest of one lemon, finely grated

1 large egg, beaten

Streusel Topping:

1/4 cup all-purpose flour

3 Tbsp. granulated sugar

1/8 tsp. kosher salt

3 Tbsp. cold, unsalted butter, cut into 1/4 inch pieces

Make Dough:

In a small mixing bowl add milk, 2 Tbsp. sugar, 2 Tbsp. flour and

yeast. Mix until well combined. Set aside until mixture becomes foamy ( around

20 minutes).

 Beat eggs in the bowl of a stand mixer until light and lemon-colored. add remaining ingredients for the dough except melted butter. Add yeast mixture and mix with a paddle attachment until well combined. Add melted butter and mix  until emulsified, about 3 minutes. Spray bowl with oil and cover with a kitchen towel. Allow dough to rest until doubled in size (approx. 2 hours).

Brush the beaten egg over the tops of the buns. Sprinkle the streusel topping evenly over the tops of the buns and gently press it in.

Prepare Filling:

In a small bowl, mix the blueberries with sugar, breadcrumbs and lemon zest. Set aside.

Prepare Streusel:

Measure dry ingredients into a mixing bowl. Add the butter to the mixture. Rub the butter between the tips of your fingers, breaking it into smaller bits. Continue rubbing until the mixture feels like coarse sand. Mix half of the beaten egg into crumb mixture with a fork. Place bowl in refrigerator until streusel is needed.

Heat oven to 375 degrees. Sprinkle the dough with a little bit of flour and knead with a dough hook attachment until the dough is smooth and elastic. (Approx. 10 minutes).

Transfer the dough onto a lightly floured work surface. Knead lightly and then roll out into an approximate 16-inch square square, about 1/4-inch thick. Cut into 3-inch squares. You will have approximately 12-16 squares.

Place about 1 Tbsp. of blueberry mixture in the center of each square and fold the corners up and over around the berries, encasing them totally. Place the buns, seam-side down on a baking sheet covered with parchment paper. Cover buns with additional parchment and set aside to rise for another 30 minutes.

leaving them space to rise. Brush the tops with the remaining beaten egg, and mound about 2 Tbsp. streusel on each, pressing down gently. Bake for 20 -25 minutes, until buns are golden brown and streusel is browned and crisp.

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On Summer, Bungalows, and Peach Preserves

Whoever said “you can’t take it with you,“ has never seen a packed car traveling 

up to the Catskills - Anonymous

Given the fact that June 30th does not fall out on a Friday every year, I can say with great certainty that my final day of school at PS 135 in Brooklyn was not always June 30th. Even though I believed it was. The date was circled on my mental calendar, and when the third week of June rolled around, I could hardly stand the anticipation. My obsession was not so much associated with the end of the school year as it was with the knowledge of knowing that when my bedtime came on (or about) June 30th, I would be heading off to slumberland in South Fallsburg, New York, in the Catskill Mountains--my summer home away from home. 

By the time I arrived home on the last day of school, our car was already packed, my dad was already yelling at my mom about how much junk she was bringing, and she was yelling back at him. (Just another day in my world.) And finally we were on our way, car stuffed to the gills with boxes, and me in there amongst them, somewhere.The drive up to the Catskills rivaled the final destination, and it had nothing to do with the scenery. About 48 miles from New York City, on what was called “old route 17,” was an attraction so popular, that strategically placed billboards counted off its location in miles...and then feet, so that your curiosity (and appetite) would be properly whetted by the time you got there. 

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On the totem pole of rest stops, the Red Apple Rest occupied the pinnacle, but it wasn’t so much the quality of the food that enticed people--it was really a glorified cafeteria--it was the location. Back in the days before the New York State Thruway was built and essentially became “The Reader’s Digest” version of the long drive, condensing the travel time to the Catskills by a few hours, the Red Apple Rest was approximately at the halfway point--a welcome respite from the bumper-to-bumper traffic one often encountered during the summer months. Seeing the giant red plaster apple that was precariously perched atop the roof, was a glorious sign for me that summer had actually begun. The crowd that joined us in the huge asphalt parking lot was generally the same: fancy new cars, old jalopies (“cherabunchkas” as my dad would call them) heaving with the weight of old jalopy suitcases lashed to their roofs with rope, Greyhound buses filled with octogenarians heading to “Borscht Belt” hotels like the Concord and Grossinger’s, and children heading to sleepaway camps. And then there were families like mine--Holocaust survivors and their kids heading on to bungalow colonies where they would create modern-day shtetls, spending the summer with other survivors and their kids. The place was a madhouse--more of a tradition than just an eatery.

While my dad would wait outside guarding the car, because you never knew when someone might covet our “B List” things that were not good enough for Brooklyn, but were just fine for the bungalow in the Catskills, my mom and I would venture inside. Regardless of the time of day, my menu never varied: a cheeseburger, French Fries, and a soda. I was often tempted to order the scrambled eggs and toast just to get at the square slivers of paper-wrapped butter that came with the dish, but my gastronomic world had not yet been expanded back then.  When we were done, we would return to the car and Dad, strawberry ice cream cone in one hand, would invariably ask what took us so long, forgetting the other throngs of people piling in and out of the place.

And then it was back beside the boxes of our second-tier sheets, towels, and cookware. Some of these things had not even been unpacked since the previous summer, and every so often I would get a whiff of the mothballs that were thrown in to ward off any evildoers. About sixty miles later I sat on the porch of our bungalow, slowly forgetting our little apartment in Brooklyn that seemed millions of miles away. The summer stretched before me, and the possibilities were endless.  There were new friends to meet, and old friends to reconnect with, and those experiences shaped my life in ways I could not have imagined. 


It's unfortunate that the bungalow colonies and hotels of that era have all but disappeared. Whatever is left is in virtual disarray. The things that charmed and enthralled us in childhood often lose their luster when we look back in retrospect. Things that seemed big are now small, and things that seemed new are now older and shabbier. And so it is with the glory days of the Catskill Mountains.

The Red Apple Rest is also gone. It closed up tight in 2006, but I hear it had been on the verge for many years prior. Faster routes going North put the first nails in its coffin, and the demise of the popularity of vacationing in the Catskills locked the lid. It sits abandoned now, another relic of the past.The droves of people and cars are gone, and with them went a lifestyle that no longer exists. It was a simple time when summer meant leaving the heat and humidity of the city for the mountains, lakes, streams and swimming pools of a place that seemed so special, it was referred to in quotes: “The Country.” It meant ramshackle bungalows, cookouts on the basketball court, Color War, and games of volleyball and Red Rover. No TV, no phone for two months, Tuesday night bingo, and Thursday night movies in the meeting hall strangely called, the "casino." YouTube, Facebook, and the Internet were not even in anyone’s realm of thinking back then. Our entertainment was playing pinball, catching speckled orange salamanders in pickle jars filled with bright green moss, and sitting with friends around an umbrella table in the evening that stretched late into the night; telling secrets and laughing. 

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We were sent out by our moms to get Kaiser rolls and cupcakes that were slathered in sweet crackly icing from Madnicks “the baker,” who drove his truck into the parking lot and honked his horn early in the morning. Other food vendors would also come peddling their wares: Ruby The Knish Man, Shimmy The Pickle King, and when we heard the staticky, tinkling sound of what was supposed to be Asian-inspired music, we knew that Chow Chow Cup, with their pseudo egg rolls and Chow Mein was on the premises. Sometimes we’d drive into town and go to the supermarket. And then to the bagel bakery, where the floor was covered with sawdust and the wooden screen door snapped behind you with a lazy creak when you entered. There we’d get bialys and pletzels, boards of crisp bread that were topped with crunchy onions. They would all be thrown into brown paper bags and the yeasty aroma would hit you as you opened them on the way home because you couldn’t wait to tear into the still-warm-from-the-oven dough. 

As we kids got closer to outgrowing the bungalow colony experience, we still stuck around for a while longer.  We smoked behind the bungalows, snuck into the hotels at night, and kept our secrets to ourselves. And then it was over. I’ve tried to explain the phenomenon to my children, but they don’t understand. Nor would I expect them to. These are my memories, and they will have their own. Their summers were often spent in mountain camps and at the beach. And on trips to exotic places, like Asia and Europe. The experiences were different, but years from now, as they look back and try to explain them to their own children, they too will feel the nostalgia I feel. And they will polish up the tarnish, and forget about the tears and hurt feelings. And everything small and old will become big and new again.

In summer, song sings itself - William Carlos Williams

Sweet peaches, that drip with lazy, syrupy juices when you bite into them epitomize summer for me. A great way to harness that summer taste so you can have summer in winter is by making preserves. The recipe below has been adapted from “Preserving The Taste,” by Edon Waycott, a jam and jelly guru from California. I had the privilege of taking a class from Edon and while some of her methods are a little more involved than traditional ones, the end products are fresh and bursting with pure fruit flavor. Be sure to use a heavy-bottomed shallow pan so that evaporation can take place in the shortest time. If you don’t wish to go through the entire preserving process, the fruit preserves will last for about two weeks in the refrigerator.

VANILLA BEAN PEACH PRESERVES
(adapted from "Preserving the Taste)

6 to 7 pounds peaches (8 cups), peeled and sliced

1 1/2 cups granulated sugar

1/2 cup Mexican brown sugar (penoche) if unavailable, substitute regular brown sugar
1tsp. cinnamon
1/2 tsp. freshly ground nutmeg

1 vanilla bean

2 Tbsp. lemon juice

Toss the peaches with the sugar in a large bowl and let stand at room temperature for 2 to 3 hours, stirring occasionally. Place a large colander in a large nonreactive shallow preserving pan. Split the vanilla bean down the center and scrape the beans into the pan. Add the vanilla pod as well as the cinnamon and nutmeg. Pour the fruit and juice through the colander. Let drain for 15 minutes. Remove the colander with the fruit to a bowl.

Place the pan over high heat, add the lemon juice, and boil the juice into a syrup. (It will look very foamy with small bubbles covering the entire surface.) The time it takes will depend on how deep your pan is. Test with a candy thermometer; it should read 222 degrees. Immediately pour in the reserved fruit and any additional juice that may have collected at the bottom of the bowl. Remove the vanilla bean pod. Cook over high heat just until the peaches appear caramelized around the edges. They will become more golden and look glazed.

Ladle into hot, sterilized jars, wipe the rims clean with a damp towel, and seal with new lids and metal rings. Process in a hot-water bath for 5 minutes. Remove, cool, check seals, label, and store.